


Missed Connections

by Sath



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Cultural Differences, Established Relationship, Humor, M/M, Misunderstandings, Sexual Frustration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-14
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-05-14 22:34:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5761432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sath/pseuds/Sath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Finrod's effort to be respectful of Bëor's age goes awry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Missed Connections

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cinaed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinaed/gifts).



Bëor must have done something wrong. He had tried his best: candles, burning incense, a bearskin laid out in front of the fire, and patient explanations of what they were about to do, because Finrod was, improbably, a virgin. There had been so much oil that the bearskin had had to be thrown out. Finrod had seemed to enjoy himself, laughing and moaning at all the right moments, then he had curled against Bëor’s side until Bëor fell asleep.

And yet Finrod had not so much as kissed Bëor since that night, three long weeks ago. It was as if all the years of flirting and being careful around each other had never happened, and Finrod had no more interest in Bëor than he did in crop rotation. Except that Finrod had quite a lot of interest in crop rotation, which put Bëor’s state in an even grimmer light. It was not that Finrod ignored him—he was still a friend and leader to Bëor, but there were no more lingering touches and heavily-lidded eyes, or suggestive remarks about polishing harps. Bëor felt that Finrod had let him go as gently as he could, and he would have to accept that Finrod had no further desire for him in bed. Or on the bearskin, as it had happened.

Well, Bëor had not led his people over the mountains so he could mope over tall, beautiful Elves. He would leave the pining to younger Men. Bëor’s wrists were not as strong as they used to be, and the twice-daily masturbation to memories of Finrod’s golden hair was becoming tiresome.

With his aching wrists in mind, he decided he would go train. Better to put your sword in your hands than your yard, his father had always said. Gods, Bëor was over fifty; Finrod’s arse may as well have shaved forty years off his age.

As luck would have it, Finrod was in the training field. He was wearing mail, but had no helm and despite the winter cold, was barefoot. His sharp eyes noted Bëor immediately.

“Bëor, my friend! I would be honoured if you would come spar with me; I have already knocked over all your fellows and Orodreth besides.”

Bëor could never remember whether Orodreth was Finrod’s brother or his nephew. Regardless, Orodreth was sitting morosely on one of the benches, also shoeless. “I am sure you put up a noble fight,” Bëor said to him.

Orodreth gratefully inclined his head. “I am quite used to losing.”

There really was nothing to say to that, so Bëor kept silent. He could not say no to Finrod—not when Finrod had a fine flush on his cheeks, smiling, innocent of Bëor’s continuing lust to bend him over the sword rack. Bëor would also be happy with being bent over the sword rack himself, or to kneel in the dirt, or at this point, even just to briefly cup his lord’s gloriously muscled arse once more.

Perhaps going at Finrod with an actual sword would keep Bëor from thinking of the one between his legs. He shook away the memories of Finrod’s naked body, and reached for the weapons rack.

“I thought we should wrestle,” Finrod said.

“Oh,” Bëor replied, nearly knocking the rack over. Wrestling Finrod in front of his close blood relative, wrestling his ancient, apparently sexless lord in front of his nephew or younger brother. “Aye, I suppose we could.”

Finrod rubbed his hands together and took up a pose Bëor knew better from boxing. Bëor hoped his heavy woollens would hide his unavoidable arousal, or that the coldness of the day would keep him modest. He set down his sword belt and mimicked how Finrod held his arms.

“Ready?” Finrod asked.

At Bëor’s nod, Finrod was wrapped around him in the blink of an eye. Bëor had just enough time to wonder why he was looking at the sky before he felt both his shoulders hit the ground.

“Point,” Orodreth announced drily.

“That’s not how Men do it,” Bëor said, deeply aware of how Finrod’s knee was pressed against his crotch.

“How do you assign points, then?” Finrod replied, shifting position so he could meet Bëor’s eyes, some of his loose hair brushing against Bëor’s chin.

“By throwing each other out of the ring.”

“How impressive! We will try that.”

Finrod helped Bëor to his feet. Bëor’s leather jack felt much tighter than it had before Finrod’s tackle. Wishing for a quick end to temptation, Bëor was prepared for Finrod’s opening move. Nimble as he was, Finrod was no match for Bëor in strength, so Bëor had only to reach Finrod first. He ducked under Finrod’s arms and grabbed him around the waist, lifting him up over his shoulder like a laughing sack of meal. Finrod wriggled around to Bëor’s distraction as he walked out of the practice ring and, as gently as he could, tried to drop him to the ground. But Finrod had hooked his legs around Bëor, and brought him down on top of him. As Orodreth announced the point, there was no question that Finrod’s widening eyes were from feeling Bëor’s arousal. Bëor rolled off of him as quickly as he could. At least Orodreth had not noticed anything.

“We should speak inside,” said Finrod.

Bëor really was far too old for this. “There is nothing to speak of, my lord.”

The hurt in Finrod’s eyes made Bëor change his mind. Bëor had erred again, and he still had no thought as to how. He followed closely behind Finrod as they walked back to his chambers, away from all the keen ears of his household.

“I’m sorry. Ever since we,” Bëor began, at a loss for words to describe sex which might not fluster an Elf, “we were joined, my body reacts as it will. I don’t know how you were displeased by it, but I expect nothing more of you.”

Finrod looked puzzled. “Displeased? Bëor, it was wonderful.”

Bëor must have misheard. “Then why have you treated me as no more than a friend for these past few weeks?”

“How do you want me to treat you?” Finrod asked, holding out his hands.

The question was disarming. “Like a lover,” Bëor mumbled.

“I don’t know what you mean by that. Do you want to make love again? Is that what this means?” Finrod gestured towards Bëor’s groin.

“If you did.”

Finrod furrowed his eyebrows and pursed his lips; the expression was too charming. “It has not yet been a year.”  

Bëor’s jaw dropped. “Elves only have sex once a year?”

“Once every Valian year, which is some ten years of the Sun. My parents would tell me and my siblings to visit our cousins for the day.”

Ten years before he could lay Finrod again. The thought chilled his blood. 

“I admit that I have been… not without temptation myself,” Finrod said, “but I did not want you to strain yourself in your age.”  

“It was not any strain to me,” Bëor lied, for his thighs had been sore afterwards. “I could make love to you every day. Twice,” he added, as Finrod raised his eyebrows.

“Twice,” Finrod repeated.

“Three times, even, since it has been three weeks.”

“Three times.” Finrod pronounced both words reverently.

“Aye.”


End file.
